Sparky had joined us. "You know some stuff," he said, when I'd finished.
"It doesn't win quizzes," I admitted.
"So you reckon he comes from Burnley," Maggie said.
"I'd bet on it."
She was picking at her fingernails, absent-mindedly removing imaginary dirt from under them with her thumbnail, a faraway expression on her face. "It'd be nice if they could come up with something," she said.
She wanted Darryl behind bars.
"Day after tomorrow," I told her. "We'll have a word with him then.
Put it in your new diary."
Sparky was pulling his coat on. "I'll get down to the squat, Boss," he said. "See if they need any help."
"OK. I'll probably be here if you want me, but try not to." I didn't envy them, having to cope with all the residents, plus children and animals. It'd be a pantomime.
"What are you doing tonight?" he asked.
"Not sure. Haven't thought about it."
"In that case, come round. See the New Year in with us."
"Aren't you going out?"
"No. Sophie's going to a party, so Daniel would be left on his own.
We'll stay in with him."
"Right, thanks. I'll come round late on, if that's OK?"
"See you then. I might have to tear myself away to fetch Sophie. The joys of fatherhood," he added, making a face.
A copy of the Sun was lying on Jeff Caton' sdesk, with the headline '5,000 New Cops'. I picked it up and read the story.
It didn't take long. The streets were about to be reclaimed for the people. The PM's new initiative would meet the muggers and vandals and drug pushers head-on, make them realise that they had no future in the New Society. Suddenly, we had Society again. They made it sound as if our towns and villages would be flooded with policemen. You'd be able to walk your dog at two in the morning, safe in the knowledge that a friendly bobby would be standing on every street corner.
I pulled out my calculator and typed 5,000 into it. Divide by forty-three forces, except that the Met would get the lion's share, then by the seventeen divisions in East Pennine and the number of stations in Heckley. We cover twenty-four hours per day, seven days per week, but each officer only works five eight-hour shifts. I tapped the appropriate keys. Then there's holidays, training courses and sick leave. I hit the equals button and watched as minute electrical forces shuffled molecules into new locations, spelling out a number. It said that at any given time the citizens of Heckley would have the benefit of an extra 0.49 of a policeman on duty. Allowing for meal breaks, paperwork and time in court, it worked out as the equivalent of a rooky wolf cub. Halle-flipping-lujah.
I did a report for Makinson and caught up with the burglaries. Lunch was a mug of tea. The doctor in Wandsworth was on his rounds, I was told, but I'd catch him about ten to four. Sparky rang to say that they'd found nothing of interest at the squat and Nigel told me that Skinner's brother-in-law had been traced. He'd be having a word with him shortly.
It had never looked good, and then it all fell to pieces. Nigel came in with the till receipts and they sounded just like the one a Traffic officer from Cambridgeshire described to me. The doctor in Wandsworth verified that he had been contacted by Dr. Jordan, and Skinner had collected his prescriptions from him like a good little boy. Jim and Mary were stalwarts of the local church and supported Skinner's story, and finally, we didn't have a weapon.
"Let him go," Superintendent Wood said.
"Let him go," Chief Superintendent Isles concurred.
"You can go," I told Skinner. The only bright spot was the thought of the look on Makinson's sunburnt face when he learned the news, and I wondered how I could wangle being there at the time.
I hung around in the office until I knew the Bamboo Curtain would be open and had my favourite, duck in plum sauce, for tea, washed down with a pint of lager. There was no reason why I shouldn't have a little celebration of my own. The place was almost empty, so early in the evening, and the proprietor came and shared a pot of Chinese tea with me, on the house. Later, it would be rowdy with drunks, but the staff would serve them with patience and courtesy, their contempt suppressed by ten thousand years of oppression.
There were no messages on my ansa phone but the postman had made a delivery. The various financial organisations that knew my address were suggesting that now was the time to reorganise my lifestyle and the house insurance was due. I binned most of it and had a shower.
I had no clean shirts. Well, no decent ones. I don't wear designer clothes and automatically reject anything with the label on the outside. If they want me to advertise their wares they should pay me, or at least bring their prices down. All jeans are made from the same material on the same machines to the same measurements. Only the labels vary, with perhaps an odd row of decorative stitching. I buy mine in the market at half price. I pulled on a pair that had that washed-once look, when the colour is at its brightest.
There is one exception to my aversion to style. Wrangler do a shirt that has a row of mother-of-pearl press-studs down the front instead of buttons, and the first time I saw one I thought that one day all shirts would be like that. Harold Wilson was at Number Ten at the time, but Scott McKenzie was at number one. I found a faded example in the recesses of the wardrobe and put it on. I was only going toSparky's;I'ddo.
Once upon a time I thought I was trendy, at art school, when I was competing with the other young blokes, like a stag at rutting time. I had an Afghan coat. I gave it to the Oxfam shop, and a couple of years ago I'm sure I saw it on telly, when Kabul fell. What goes around comes around.
I made a mug of tea and relaxed for a while to a Dire Straits CD, hoping Annabelle would call me. It was ten o'clock when the phone rang, as I was opening my front door, leather jacket half on, half off.
"Priest!" I snapped into it, with faked authority.
"Hi, Charlie. Pete Drago. How are you?"
"Hiya, Dragon," I replied. "This is a pleasant surprise. I'm fine, how are you?"
"I'm OK, thanks. Counting the days, of course, like you, I suppose."
Time flies, don't remind me."
"It doesn't seem like fifteen years since I rescued you from that big nympho when we were at the Academy."
"Your memory's playing tricks. It was me rescued you."
"No it wasn't. I was knocking her off for the rest of the course."
"So were most of the others."
"Then everyone was happy. I wonder what happened to her?"
"I married her. So where are you, these days?"
"Ha ha! Good one. I'm at Penrith, back in uniform."
"Penrith? What took you there?"
"It was either move up here and go back into uniform or have my buttons cut off in front of the massed troops of the division. It's not too bad."
"I get the message. It sounds as if you haven't changed much."
"It was a long time ago. Listen, I rang Padiham Road for a chat with a couple of old pals and they said you'd been after me."
"That's right. We have a suspected rapist called Darryl Buxton who may have originated in Burnley. There's nothing on the PNC for him, so I was hoping for some local knowledge."
"That's what I was told. When I heard the name the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end, except that it's not quite right. The bloke I'm thinking of is called Darryl Burton."
"Burton?" I repeated. "No, this is definitely Buxton. What did your man do?"
"He raped a sixteen-year-old schoolgirl, eight years ago. Invited two of them to his flat one bank holiday Monday and plied them with cheap wine. One of them passed out and he raped the other. He pleaded not guilty and just before the trial the girl's parents withdrew the charges. It had been made plain to them that he intended destroying her credibility in court. I think she knew what it was all about."